


to spend my life in her majesty's service

by janie_tangerine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Bottom Jaime Lannister, Collars, Dom/sub, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Femdom, Hand Jobs, Love at First Sight, Oral Sex, Pegging, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Regency, Top Brienne of Tarth, Woman on Top, and no one here thinks afternoon teas are interesting brienne first and foremost, i also greatly suffered by being unable to use the word 'fuck' as i should, idek, is the language in this fic probably all wrong? most likely, no one here thinks fox hunting is good jaime first and foremost, not-so-arranged-marriage, regencyfemdom2020 event, the author's relationship with regency era is mostly complicated but she tried
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:40:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27125989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine/pseuds/janie_tangerine
Summary: in which Brienne and Jaime quite run into each other after ditching their respective social duties and it's about the best thing that could have happened to the both of them.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 17
Kudos: 169
Collections: Regency Femdom Week 2020





	to spend my life in her majesty's service

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO SO, this is the first of four planned fics for the regency femdom 2020 week event on tumblr this week - I have another one ready that's going up either later or tomorrow morning which is basically the Ned/Catelyn companion to this specific setting that we can sum up in 'regency nobles hating their gender roles' and then there should be another jb one happening for the last day if everything goes well, but for now I'm going with this one first - and like... HELLO HAVE SOME EXCUSE TO WRITE PERIOD FEMDOM PORN which apparently also half-kicked me off _more_ writer's block because I did 10k of this in two days so like... PLEASE ENJOY IT AND SORRY IN ADVANCE for the most likely completely inaccurate period language but this isn't usually my period sandbox X°DD *drops porn and runs*
> 
> And as usual: the title is from a reworked brian fallon line and I own nothing *drops porn and saunters back downwards*

“ — And I wonder what does Miss Tarth have to say about this?”

Brienne, who had stopped following the conversation… she doesn’t even know how long ago, she just knows that her tea had still been in the cup when she had and now it’s long drunk and no one offered her a refill, curses for the umpteenth time the fact that she can’t feign to not have heard and steers herself to look at Lady Cersei, raising her eyes and meeting her cold emerald ones and her obnoxious little smile as she does.

“I beg your pardon, my lady?” She asks, knowing that from _her_ mouth it comes out awkward, and the moment everyone else around their table lets out a tiny laugh, she’s nowhere near surprised.

“Oh,” Lady Margaery says, “of course you will have an opinion about our sovereign’s… love matters?”

Oh. _That_. Brienne is only vaguely aware that the Prince of Galles has technically two wives, or _something_ of the kind, she thinks one of those marriages wasn’t somehow legal, but… she honestly never _thought_ much about it. Septa Roelle despaired of ever teaching her royal history, but while she’s interested in it up to a point, _why_ would she care for the affairs of the Prince of Galles?

“That if he has two wives, good for him,” she shrugs, and _everyone_ tuts again as she puts her cup back on the table.

“ _Lady Brienne_ ,” Cersei says, and she _sounds_ outraged but Brienne can just hear the mocking tone underneath, “surely you do _not_ mean such a thing.”

Brienne, who at this point also wants to rip her own dress to pieces — it’s not as stuffy as it could be but the light corset underneath is making her feel like she can’t breathe and god, she _hates_ dresses, she hates having to come here once per week because _it’s proper_ and the Lannisters are their very much richer neighbors and her father wants to keep good relations, she _hates_ every second of it and she doesn’t even like tea that much. Not tea with _them_ anyway —, tries to hold the stare as she replies, hoping her father won’t have her head for it.

God.

She needs to be out of here. Nothing she’ll say will be good enough for them and she has _nothing_ to discuss with them.

She clears her throat. “Honestly, I do not really care what the Prince of Galles does in his private life. If he can be a good regent, then I do not really think it is my business to discuss _his_ business. And I do not think that my ladies are enjoying my company much, therefore — I will take the liberty to walk out in the gardens for a short while. Apologies.”

She stands up, not even bothering to curtsy — everyone laughs when she does —, aware that she’s towering over all of them, then grabs her shawl just because she knows outside it’s chilly, puts it around her shoulders and heads out of the room. Everyone is laughing behind her, of course, not even trying to hide it, but what does she even expect? Of course they would.

God, she just wants to go back home to her fencing lessons and her _nice_ , comfortable clothing cut for men that doesn’t make her feel completely out of place and too tall and too muscly and too awkward and nowhere near graceful like these stupid dresses, though at _least_ this one makes it look like she _does_ have a bit of breast to show off. Which… she really doesn’t, they never grew much even if she hoped for it, and yet.

She shakes her head, walks out of the estate and turn towards the gardens, also hating the stupid braids that will _not_ hold much longer, not with how thin her hair is — she undoes it, and patience if unbound hair is improper. She’ll worry about it if anyone catches her.

She walks faster, walking into the maze in the Lannisters’s garden — God, the _showing off_ of wealth makes her stomach curl in something like… not quite disgust, but _discomfort_ for sure, it’s not as if _they_ aren’t wealthy but this is just unnecessary and the fact that it’s full of _statues_ and well-kept flowers at the rights of the blocks she’s walking through just… doesn’t sit well for some reason — and hopes that no one comes to find her. Maybe she’ll get lost inside it. At least she wouldn’t have to go back for tea, for —

She doesn’t finish that thought because she’s _crashed_ right into someone coming from the opposite way and that person has fallen on the ground abruptly, what the —

“A — apologies,” she stammers at once when she realizes that she crashed right into Cersei’s brother Jaime, who is also… _definitely_ dressed for a fox hunt, except that he doesn’t have a gun with him.

“Lady Brienne,” he says, and thankfully he doesn’t sound angry, and she’s offered him a hand to help him stand before she realizes that _it’s really bloody improper_ —

He takes it.

“I am — I am so sorry,” she says, wishing she could just disappear in a ditch somewhere, “I had not seen you coming —”

“That’s quite all right,” he answers, sounding out of breath, “as long as you do not disclose where I am when you come back.”

… _What_ is he exactly asking now?

“I — I beg your pardon?” She asks, trying to not notice how the green of his eyes is _warm_ , differently from his sister’s. “Are you not hunting?”

He looks at her, his mouth quirking up in a small smile — he’s just barely shorter than her, even if he’s a few years older like his twin, but he doesn’t look like he’s mocking her. “Can you keep a secret, Lady Brienne?”

He — sounds _complicit_. Like he understood that she’s also running from someone.

She should just go back or move forward.

She nods instead, not knowing what’s gotten into her today.

“I can,” she blurts.

“I _hate_ fox hunting,” he admits, not looking at all sorry about it.

Oh.

 _Well_ then, it does make sense that he would be _here_ without a gun.

After all, _she_ ran off in the same place just because she wanted to be away from that damned tea party, right?

“Do — do you?” She blurts, _something_ inside her telling her that she should not let this conversation die — it’s the first time any man who ever talks to her isn’t making fun of her or looking at her like she’s unworthy of being in his presence or subtly making understand she’s unattractive and a _bad marriage prospect_ , and actually the first time a man seems to actually… _like_ talking to her, or at least not… openly dislike it.

“Disgraceful, really,” he shrugs, brushing dirt from his jacket. “I do not see the point in spending hours running after those poor animals who never did me anything wrong and always end up… just dead for the sake of it. No one _needs_ them to die, it’s not like they’re hurting anyone, but my father is extremely adamant that I participate. And I decided I was quite done, so I might have… slid away, so to speak.”

“Oh. Well. I, uh. I might have been doing the same. Sort of.”

“Running from my sister’s hellish afternoon tea?”

She almost trips on her own feet as she takes a step back — did he just say —

“I mean, I — uh, wouldn’t… quite… say… it’s —”

“You _can_ say it’s hellish. Every single woman who’s not at least as much a viper as my sister that ever attended more than once ended up either running away or never opening their mouths at any other social gathering I’ve ever seen them attend. She’s terrible and the two times I attended one I wanted to die of boredom, I can absolutely imagine why you would be running away from there.”

She swallows, not quite knowing where to look. She does want to look at him, she _does_ — he’s handsome in a way that is almost _blinding_ , his sister’s features looking much more striking and _attractive_ on him, those emerald eyes looking warm and sparkling in the afternoon sun and that golden slightly curly hair falling right over his shoulders, and the soft, pink lips he has —

See, if she looks at his sister and sees _the same things_ , it just feels like she’s mocking her just by existing, painting the picture of the perfect, beautiful, _proper_ lady that Brienne can never be and _will_ never be. But if she looks at _him_ , well. Her stomach is constricting on itself, and she feels like a storm of butterflies is fighting its way out of her throat, and he’s actually still smiling at her as he speaks.

She clears her throat. “Then — yes, I was running from your sister’s hellish birthday party and the royal talk.”

“What,” Lord Jaime sighs, “is she _still_ on about the Prince of Wales having two wives?”

“… Yes,” Brienne confirms.

“Well, _good for him_ , who cares.”

She _has_ to smile at that. Just a tiny bit. “That — was what I said,” she whispers.

“Oh, was it,” he says, “then you definitely have a better approach to that conversation than any lady I’ve ever met. Actually —” He bites down at his lip, his tone suddenly a lot less cheerful. “I see we are both running from… our _duties_. I have… one place around the garden where I usually go when I attempt that. Fancy coming with me?”

He sounds… like he means it. He sounds like he _means_ it and like he actually _does_ want someone to keep him company, and Brienne has never been invited by a man to walk with him or converse with him or do anything with —

Well.

 _Well_.

“I would be delighted. My lord,” she adds quickly, and he gives her a small smile before nodding and telling her to follow him towards the direction he was going towards before.

When he slammed into her.

God, he felt _warm_.

He felt _warm_.

Brienne tries to not — to not let that go to her head too much and follows him through a turn in the maze, and then another, and then _another_ , until she’s absolutely lost her way and she’s just following him across the garden, and _how big is this place anyway_ —

“My lady,” he says, shaking her from her line of thought. “Would you follow?”

Oh.

There is a small lake in the middle of the garden, and there’s… what looks like a small replica of a _Greek temple_ in the middle of it.

A _marble Greek temple_.

How much money do they have, _honestly_ , Brienne thinks before realizing that the only way to it is… a path rocks in the lake.

“Would my lady accept a hand?”

Brienne _doesn’t_ need a hand to walk all the way there. Really, she _doesn’t_. She has an excellent sense of equilibrium, both her horse riding teacher and her fencing teacher told her, and she certainly _could_ manage it.

She slips her hand inside his own before she can think back on it, and when he helps her through the path, it feels — it feels _strange_ but in a good way, like — like she always imagined it would feel if _any_ man actually treated her like a real lady for once, and so she swallows and follows him in silence until they get to the temple and he lets her hand go, and _why_ does she miss the touch?

There is a bench inside. She sits just after he does, smoothing down her skirt.

“We should be fine here,” he says, brushing a bit more dirt from his trousers. “My father has quite forgotten this place even exists.”

“But — it’s his property?” Brienne protests, before realizing that maybe it’s _not_ an appropriate question. “I’m sorry, I —”

“Please,” he waves her off, “my sister is the only relative I have who actually _likes_ my father, and that’s just because of the money. My brother loathes him, _I_ loathe him and he honestly has no idea of what’s even in most of the property because he’s always lobbying in London and wishing _I_ was doing it with him, and even if I avoid it then I have to be _here_ taking his place in the damned fox hunts.”

“You _really_ do loathe them, don’t you?”

She doesn’t realize she hasn’t properly addressed him just as he answers _without giving a single damn about it_ , or so it seems. “Oh, absolutely. I do quite like those poor foxes. No need to _kill_ them gruesomely. I had enough of it the two years I was with the army.”

Oh.

 _Right_.

He was in Waterloo, Brienne remembers, and he hurt his right hand bad enough that they shipped him back with a permanent discharge even if he had technically enrolled.

“I am — sorry to hear it,” she says. “It must have been… gruesome, wasn’t it?”

She _means_ that question. Honestly, she’d rather discuss war with him than… whatever it is she’s forced to discuss with his sister.

He shrugs. “I hated every second of it. But I also had enrolled to — well. For _reasons_ , among which there was that it was the only option that would get my father off my back when it came to _being his heir_.”

“Oh,” she says, “you don’t… enjoy the prospect?”

“I _loathe_ the prospect, Lady Brienne,” he sighs. “I don’t care for making money at all costs, I don’t care for all of this waste of time that is living _here_ , the only good thing about the army was — well. I wasn’t spending my days doing nothing. And I know _you_ agree.”

“Is it so obvious?”

“You _ran_ from tea with my sister, Lady Brienne. Just someone absolutely desperate and who hates spending the afternoon doing nothing would run from her parties.”

She sighs. She supposes he’s right. “I mean, when I’m at home I… fence. And ride. And no one except my father likes it, but… I find it more interesting than whatever else _they_ do. I just… have to attend for… well. Father insists I keep good relations. Maybe he hopes I can find… a suitor, but I think he’s much delusional in that.”

Lord Jaime _laughs_ at that, but… not at her. It’s laughing as if _that_ was actually something amusing.

“Delusional, Lady Brienne?”

“Do not mock me, my lord. You have been quite better at it than most people and most men, for now. I would hate to see you follow their lead.”

“Do not worry, my lady. I think you shall find out that there are quite no men like me around, for better or worse, and I do not like to mock anyone. I was merely asking.”

Fair, she presumes. _Fair_. She can give him a proper answer. If he really is mocking her… she’ll know. Oh, it will be _fairly fucking obvious_.

“My lord,” she sighs, “my father is… well, doing _well_ , but he’s certainly no gold hoarder and his mansion is a fraction of yours. I do not have enough money that any… lord would care for more than having to deal with the fact that I am not beautiful, not a _proper lady_ and more interested in… lordly pursuits than ladies’s. No one even _looks_ at me during dinners or… events like your sister’s tea. I think presuming anyone would court me is delusional.”

“I see,” he says, “that we seem to have the opposite problem.”

“… Such as?”

“Oh,” he shrugs, “a whole slew of _ladies_ who are either vipers or completely vapid who line outside my door to marry me even if just looking at my right hand openly disgusts them, and I am not interested in marrying any of them because they do like that I’m… well, easy on the eyes, I suppose, and that I’m the heir to the estate’s money, but I don’t want a marriage that’s based on that, _if_ I have to marry.”

“… And why would they be disgusted? Concerning your hand, I mean. If I may ask.”

Lord Jaime stares at her for one moment, then shrugs and slowly peels his right glove off.

Oh.

 _Oh_.

The entire outer side of it is completely scarred, and while he can move his fingers as he is curling them right now, the skin is _burned_ , the entire surface of it looking raw and rough and she thinks she can see a bit of bone in his middle finger.

“What — what happened?” She asks, softly.

“A grenade wanted a dance with me, I think. It is apparently a miracle that I can still move my fingers and it’s not utterly useless, but not many ladies seem to think it charming. And I would like for any prospect wife to _not_ be.”

Brienne, before thinking about it, reaches forward and brushes her fingers against it before immediately pulling them back. “I’m sorry,” she says, “I am _mortified_ , I shouldn’t have —”

“My lady,” he says, “did you move it back because it was disgusting to the touch or because you thought it was inappropriate? Because if it was the latter, I assure you I cannot care less for _property_ , as I thought was plenty obvious.”

“Oh. Well. Yes, it was —”

“Then,” he says, “you did not have to.”

He sounds out of breath.

She reaches down again, touches it again. It’s… _rough_ and warm, and she feels like it might shatter if she touches it wrong, but she doesn’t _mind_ it, and so what if she lightly squeezes the top before moving hers back —

 _Then_ , scarred fingers are threading with hers.

Oh.

 _Oh_.

She breathes in, looking at him, wishing she didn’t feel like she was going to faint.

“Lord Jaime?” She whispers.

“Lady Brienne,” he smiles back, “I think you are the only woman I ever met who didn’t find them _revolting_.”

“Oh.” She hates that she sounds dumbfounded, but — “It’s a hand. There’s… nothing revolting about it.” She dares holding it back. “Honestly, there… is not. I am sorry most people seem to be… that shallow.”

“ _I_ am sorry of it, actually,” he says, and wait, _what_ —

“I beg your pardon?”

“My lady, I talked to you for what, less than an hour, and you’ve been more interesting to discuss with than anyone I’ve talked to since I came back from Waterloo. And, all things considered,” he says, looking at her up and down, _what_ , “I think any man who would not look at you is a complete idiot.”

“Lord Jaime — I don’t — I mean, I’m not — no one would glance my way and think I am… something worth looking at.”

“I don’t know about that,” he smiles, moving _closer_ , and then —

“You, my lady, do have quite astonishing eyes, and that blue goes really well with them, to say one,” he says, and then his mouth is on hers, and _god has he kissed her he_ has _kissed her_ , and —

And he’s _pressing_.

And Brienne, in that moment, as his scarred hand leaves hers and cups her cheeks, finds herself realizing that she _really_ wants to kiss him back and run her fingers through that soft, beautiful hair, and feeling him moan into her mouth if he has any moans to give her, and so she reaches out with trembling hands and pulls him in and kisses him _more_ and —

And he groans, pulling her forward by the waist

( _like a real lady_ )

and crashes his lips to hers, moaning, like he was starved for it, his tongue searching for hers, and Brienne has never kissed anyone but kissing _him_ feels good, feels not hard at all, and she doesn’t move away until he does, the both of them breathing in heavily but _not_ moving apart.

“You — you are quite astonishing yourself, my lord,” she blurts, hoping he doesn’t decide that she’s pathetic for having just told the truth, but he _looks_ at her and then leans back down and kisses her slower, _slower_ , his burned hand trembling as it cards through her hair.

“That’s what a man would like to hear,” he blurts as he moves back, though it’s… not said jokingly. Or, he was trying and it fell flat.

She has a feeling no one has told him that meaning it, lately.

Well.

Well, she _does_ mean it.

She — maybe she should make sure he _knows_ for sure now, shouldn’t she?

She takes a deep breath and kisses him _again_ , and before she can worry about how it’s everything they tried to teach her she _shouldn’t_ do, and then his hands are on her back and he’s dragged her _down_ and he’s lying down on the bench and she’s somewhat on top of him, her legs in the middle of his, and —

“Lord —”

“I _think,_ ” he says, “that we’re way past that. That’s _Jaime_ for you. If —”

“ _Jaime_ ,” she blurts, “what are we doing?”

He cocks up an eyebrow.

“I think,” he says, jerking his hips upward, and _oh_ , Brienne can feel that he’s hard under his trousers, _god_ , “that it is… a bit self-explanatory, _Brienne_. You _do_ want me, don’t you?”

The way he’s staring up at her _knowing_ exactly that she does is doing _things_ to her, and god she wants to slam him against the ground and — and _she doesn’t know what else_ , except that she doesn’t want to stop, but —

“I do,” she says, “but —”

“Case is,” he thrusts against her thigh again, “I _do_ want you back and I can assure you I am — I am not the kind of man who bails. If you get my meaning.”

She should stop. She should _think_ about it. She should tell him that if he means it then it cannot be like _this_ —

“ _If_ ,” she says, “you bail, _Jaime Lannister_ , I am personally ending you, and I think I _could_.”

“ _Bloody hell_ ,” he blurts, “ _yes_ , yes —”

She leans down again, crashes her mouth against his _again_ , and when her hands find his hips he moans hard enough that she thinks people _could_ hear, and god this is so _mad_ , someone will find them and it will be an incident of catastrophically bad proportions, won’t it —

His erection jerks against her dress again.

Brienne just — _stops_ thinking, hands reaching for his trousers, and when he nods at her she pulls them down, hands shaking, and when she uncovers him, he’s hard and _leaking_ and — it’s not as if she has not read _those_ books and she does not know how it works, her governess explained her with distaste, as if _Brienne_ needing to know what happens right after a wedding was a waste of time, but for a moment she’s a complete loss of what to do, and then she decides that _touching_ him cannot go wrong now, can it, and so she reaches down and puts her right hand around him, stroking experimentally, and he _jerks_ into her touch, and he blurts _please more, that’s good_ , and so — so she keeps on doing that, moving an arm down, trying to get a better angle as she strokes him faster and faster, trying to keep up with the fact that he’s _hard_ and he’s hard _for her_ , it’s obvious as much as part of her wants to deny it, and she keeps on doing it as he keeps on telling her that it feels good and she feels like she’ll fall off the damned bench if she keeps on going but _she doesn’t care_ , not really, and then he arches up and _screams_ her name and he’s — he’s spilling against her hand and her dress and _it will be obvious_ but —

But she can’t even _care_ and so she keeps on touching him as he spills and spills against her hand _and_ her dress and at some point she has to put the other one on his mouth because he really is screaming too hard or at least it feels like he is, maybe he’s _not_ but to her ears it feels like anyone might walk on and wouldn’t it make everyone talk, the fact that _she_ is making him come where anyone could see —

She _shudders_ at the thought, at the utter impropriety of it, and she’s ready to _ignore_ it and forget it and never consider it again in her life, and then she looks down and meets his eyes and — his cheeks are flushed, his eyes are fixed on hers like she’s everything he’s ever dreamed of, which is ridiculous because they barely did _anything_ and this is —

“I think,” he says, “that my lady should raise that dress and _come over here_.”

Brienne has no idea of what he wants to do, but somehow she has a feeling it means he’ll — well, he can’t _have_ her if she has to _come over towards his face_ , but —

“Jaime, it’s already a miracle no one saw us —”

“Something,” he replies, “tells me you care very little for _that_ , Brienne,” and she doesn’t know how he guessed that she just thought that she _liked_ that anyone might walk in on them and _see_ it happening, see _him_ screaming in pleasure because _she_ did it, and —

Oh, to hell with it. She nods, raises her stained dress, taking off her smallclothes and moves on her knees, putting them around his head as he motions for her too, and then she feels his head move and _up_ —

The moment his tongue touches the warm flesh inside her legs she forgets about anything else she had been worrying about and _moans_ — she did touch herself from time to time, of course, when she was sure no one was looking nor hearing, but this is — this is _nothing_ like that, and his tongue is going right — right on her sex, twirling around it before going flat and licking at it and she screams at that, not even caring that anyone could hear, because — because it feels _good_ and as he licks she can’t help thrusting her hips down and _he buries his face right in the middle of her legs_ , and she can feel that she’s — oh, she’s wet, so wet, and it takes not long of Jaime licking at her before he pushes his tongue _inside_ her before she knows that she’s _pouring_ water on his face, and she had no idea — she had no idea it could feel like _this_ , god, and she keeps on pushing his face into her legs because she can’t get enough and he seems to be swallowing all of it so, so greedily —

And then she screams as she feels herself peaking, and she can _feel_ it as she grabs the back of his head and pushes it in deeper through her dress and he groans as he swallows and —

Her legs are shaking, her _hands_ are shaking, her frame is, in the _good_ way, but she doesn’t — she never knew it could feel like this, touching herself was _nothing_ in comparison, and her blood is _burning_ for how fast it’s rushing through her veins and by the time she’s come down from the wave of pleasure that built up inside her until it was the only thing she could feel, she lets his head go and sits back on the bench, trying to stay upright — the skirt of her dress uncovers his face, and —

 _God_ , his hair is a mess, his mouth is glistening with her spend, he looks like he just greatly enjoyed what he’s just done and she just — she can’t —

“What — what did just happen?” She wheezes, feeling like she’s going to faint.

“Something very good, I think,” he replies, his voice hoarse, and of course it is —

She glances down at her dress.

It’s stained with his spend. And there is _no way_ she can wash it off in the lake or for it to dry before they have to go back.

“What a pity,” he says, looking at it, not sounding like he means it at all.

“What — what do you mean?”

“Well, anyone who saw that would know what we have just done, wouldn’t they?”

“I guess so, yes,” she replies, trying to sound… neutral. She needs to know _what_ he’s going to do. If he implies he’s going to parade such a thing around —

“Then,” he smiles again, wider, “I could tell my father that we actually have done the deed and that it would be _dreadful_ if I had to live with such shame.”

“Wait,” she exclaims, “you mean —”

“I mean,” he says, “that if I do that, and I tell him that I could not _ever_ inherit the property with such… dishonor hanging over me, unless he lets me fix it… well. Let’s just say that he would do _anything_ rather than letting my brother inherit, were I to refuse it.”

“You — you would —”

“Oh, I _would_ insist until he let me, well, make sure _neither of us_ is dishonored. At worst I suppose we could run to Scotland and marry at the first village on the border, but I think it’s worth it to just try and do it… somewhat properly.”

“You would _marry_ me.”

He shrugs. “It seems to me,” he smiles, “that we have gotten along splendidly until now, I _do_ like you and I haven’t liked any woman I’ve met since — since a _long_ time, _you_ seem to like me —”

“I — I _do_ ,” she blurts, “but —”

“Then we are already better off than most other married couples I actually do know, Brienne,” he shrugs. “I don’t know _anyone_ except Ned Stark who actually _likes_ their spouse and whose spouse likes them back. So,” he says, “will you? Because I think that if we like each other and the one thing we both want is getting away from hating what we have to do the whole day, I think that we shall have a very profitable marriage even if it’s _just_ that. What do you say?”

She’s halfway sure she’s dreaming. But he looks the uttermost serious, and — they did — they _did_ indeed get along. They did meet while _literally running from their duties_. They -- well. They definitely… enjoy each other's company. And she has met people who barely even _talked_ to each other before marrying, and it made for the uttermost unhappy marriages.

“I would _not_ give up riding or fencing.”

“Oh,” he says, “I just imagined you riding in a proper uniform and I think I would be delighted in watching you doing that. And I got pretty decent at fencing myself with the left — I was _good_ with the right, but alas. Maybe I could take the chance to take it up again.”

“I — I am a terrible host and I do not like wearing dresses and —”

“Does that mean that my sister would have to _finally_ host her hateful teas elsewhere that’s not the manor and I could stop hosting those dumb fox hunting parties? Where do I sign?”

“But — not hosting events —”

“I _hate_ events. I could do with someone who would rather not waste time with them, either.”

Brienne thinks she’s dreaming. It cannot be that they want exact the same things and that he wants _her_ —

Except that it seems like he _is_ , and honestly, it sounds heavenly. Being married to a man she _likes_ , who seems to find her _attractive_ , who cares none for parties and teas and events and who seems to be as fed up with his circumstances as she is… she never even dared to presume it _could_ be her life.

And yet —

And yet.

“Yes,” she says.

“You — you _would_?” He asks, sounding… pleasurably surprised, as if he wasn’t sure that she would actually accept.

“Yes,” she nods again. “Yes, I _would_ marry you, Lord Lannister. Should — should we go back to your sister’s party?”

He smiles as he looks at her. “Oh, we _absolutely_ should.”

Well.

 _Well then_.

She smiles, stands up and straightens her come-stained dress.

Suddenly, she doesn’t feel bad about showing up in it to Cersei’s tea at all.

— —

Predictably, it causes an uprising.

Cersei is _livid_ when they both do show up later — her dress is still stained in his spend and the entire room goes in upheaval, and when Lord Tywin shows up and asks what nonsense is going on she has to be in awe of how Jaime doesn’t give an inch when he demands to know what the hell is this all about and asks if he’s serious about wanting to marry _her_.

He _does_ hold his ground, _in front of the entire slew of guests_ , and Brienne feels horrible for not managing to get a word in, but after the fifth time Jaime repeats that if he doesn’t agree to a marriage _soon_ he’ll just marry her in Scotland, stay there _and_ leave his brother to inherit, Lord Tywin backs down and says something about despairing he’d ever marry anyone so he might as well marry _that_ , as in, _her_ , but — well. It’s nothing _anyone else_ wouldn’t have thought, if she was the prospect suitor of their son, except that most of the sons would have thought that, too, so — she will ignore it.

Cersei _glares_ at her all the time.

It shouldn’t feel as… vindicating as it feels, except that it _does_.

She stays silent, figuring that she is making enough of a point without speaking. After some haggling, still in front of everyone else, Jaime extracts from his father a promise they will hold the wedding here in three days, and when _her_ father shows up in the middle of it because someone had gone to get him quickly from their own property, he looks like he’s going to faint, but takes the entire matter with more grace than anyone could have predicted, and when he _finally_ escorts her back home, it takes him a while for him to actually talk to her.

“Are you sure about this?” He finally asks.

“I am,” she says, and she’s surprised of how sure she sounds. “I — I don’t know how we ended up, well, dishonoring each other, I suppose, but neither of us regretted it. He seems to like me. I seem to like him, as implausible as it sounds. And it was his idea.”

“Good God,” he sighs, “you — I can hear you are both serious. I cannot — well. I mean, I never thought that _Jaime Lannister_ is who you would marry, but — _I_ cannot certainly complain about that. Are you sure you can handle his sister _and_ his father, though?”

She shrugs. “If I were in a position to tell her to stop talking already, maybe I could.”

He smiles at her. “Well,” he says, “I suppose I will enjoy seeing how much Tywin Lannister will hate being related to me when I walk you down the aisle.”

She smiles back.

Maybe she should use the next three days to make sure to make a statement.

— —

She goes to London in order to find a tailor who _will_ make her a dress in two days.

When she shows up at Lannister manor on the day of the wedding, her father escorting her down the hall where Jaime is waiting with the officiant, and she’s wearing a _proper_ dress — white, embroidered in pale blue flowers, reaching her feet, with matching pale blue flowers woven in her hair with a lot of effort from her poor maid who _did_ manage to braid it properly.

People start whispering about how out of place it is that she’s wearing _white_ and that she’s not made for dresses, but Jaime is looking at her like he can’t wait to tear the dress off her, and considering that she thinks she _could_ do with ripping his military uniform off him either, well.

She thinks this wedding might be a better idea than most people would have assumed.

— —

Hours later, the reception is over and Jaime closes the door of his room with a sigh.

“God,” he says, “this is the _last_ time I ever hold such an event.”

“Won’t your father insist on it, though?” She asks, taking off her shoes.

“Oh,” he says, “he will take this as the perfect excuse to go back to London _permanently_ , which means I can _finally_ stop holding these stupid hunts and those stupid parties and enjoy married life, and if Cersei doesn’t like it she can choose one of her endless suitors, and my brother couldn’t wait to have them out of everyone’s way, so I am sure he will be delighted to meet you when he comes back from Oxford.”

“Is he a scholar?” No one talked much of Tyrion Lannister, during teas, so she… really doesn’t know much about him at all beyond the reasons why his father hates him, which she always found… pretty damn stupid, honestly.

“He wants to be. And he tries to stay there as long as he can possibly manage, not that I blame him. So,” he smiles, “maybe before I officially announce that we are going to put a ban on _events_ , we should finish what we started in the garden.”

“Oh,” she smiles, raising up her dress so that he can see that she did _not_ actually wear smallclothes that day, “I think I might be up for it.”

“I _knew_ ,” he answers, looking delighted, “that you were everything but one of those prudish vapid girls the moment I set my eyes on you.”

“Did you now,” she asks, suddenly feeling _bold_ , God, they’re _married_ , aren’t they, and he’s looking at her like he wants her to —

To —

“I absolutely did. And I think,” he smiles back, that you _should_ come and finish it yourself. You do look like you do want to.”

“I _do_ ,” she says, almost surprised by how convinced she is.

Turns out, he is delighted to run his tongue on her cunt before she finds out that her governess was completely wrong about a lot of things, first of all that a husband does not have to take his wife on his wedding night, _she_ can take him by sliding down on his erection and rotating her hips and thrusting down until she’s mad with pleasure and he’s screaming her name and telling her to take him harder without worrying for anyone listening, and it turns out he likes it when she holds him down against the mattress, and when she confesses him that she had thought she wouldn’t mind if they _had_ been caught he laughs and replies, out of breath, that he just _knew_ she had it in her, and would she _please_ let him have her cunt again?

As he grabs at her hip under the dress with both hands, the grip in the right slightly less strong but nonetheless _hard_ , Brienne decides that she’ll let him have it as much as she can possibly stand, because he _really_ can use his tongue and not just to kiss.

If the next morning her sister in law is looking at her like she wants her to disappear from the Earth at once, _well_.

Brienne smiles back at her as she nibbles on her scone.

She thinks she will take great pleasure in telling her that teas are now banned from _this_ one house.

— —

Cersei does _not_ take that well.

None of the men in Tywin Lannister’s circle take well the fact that he’s banning the fox hunts when he makes it clear in the next few days. Cersei ends up saying she will move into a secondary residence in the mansion so she can be away from Jaime’s nonsense with both of their blessings, everyone and Lord Tywin sends a few messages that are all thrown in the fire.

Brienne is nowhere near surprised when a few days later she finds him in the woods where the man would go hunt holding a small fox to his chest in the early hours of the morning — she woke up to find the bed empty and it had never happened before, so she assumed he had gone to take a walk and figured she could follow.

“You… could not sleep?” She asks.

“Not really,” he sighs. “Sometimes it’s — it gets rough. I did not want to bother you.”

“It… would not have been,” she says as he pets the fox with his right hand, cradling it with the left arm. It looks… strangely endearing, really. “A bother, I mean. Would — would you like to bring it back to the manor?”

He looks up at her. “Wait, you mean —” He nods towards the fox.

“Why not? I mean, did your father breed them? For —”

“Yes,” he sighs. “I have not fired the people minding them. Maybe I will not, I thought it would be nice to have some of them around, but still… I’m certainly done with that ridiculousness.”

“Well, then you could bring some back. It’s not as if they risk hurting anyone now that we are free of… most social obligations.”

He blinks up at her — he really must have not slept much, tonight.

“Do — you mean it? I mean, Cersei hated having animals around and —”

“I mean it,” she says. “I have nothing against them. And it is _your_ house, too.”

He nods, his hand covering the fox’s head.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

When, a few days later, he _does_ bring back five of them to roam in the garden just immediately outside the mansion, all of them wearing a small black leather collar that she supposes he got to make sure people knew that they weren’t _wild,_ and he spends an entire hour outside petting one of them, she can’t help thinking it really is… quite adorable, and so what if he hated killing them? She can imagine it even too well.

If, after a few weeks of seeing them also around the house, she looks down at one once, sees the black collar in contrast with the red fur and for a moment thinks, _it would look nice on my lord husband, too_ , well.

No one has to know _that_ , do they?

— —

She says nothing about it, of course.

One thing is that it seems like she and Jaime _do_ agree on what’s… pleasurable in bed, and that he seems to greatly enjoy her taking the lead.

Another is… well.

It is already enough that she _did_ confess to him that she wouldn’t have minded if they had been caught and that he didn’t balk at it.

She is pretty sure that sharing _that_ might be too much, and so she keeps her mouth shut even if every time she sees one of those collars on the foxes that keep on roaming through the garden and whose company he _really_ seems to enjoy she can’t help picturing _him_ in it all over again, and she wishes she knew _why_ , but —

That is not important, because she will never know and she will never tell him, so — so she’ll keep it for herself and enjoy what they already have, which is _a whole damned lot_ , and keep that for herself.

Then it happens that in spite of what everyone else at the wedding had whispered, things go… _well_. It’s not just that they _like_ each other or that they enjoy each others’ company, whether it’s behind closed doors or not. It’s that he _really_ does seem to enjoy watching her ride, and she finds out she _definitely_ likes fencing with him because he _is_ indeed good even if he’s not using his dominant hand to do it, and when his brother joins them saying he will take a sabbatical from his studies because he has a feeling someone has to give them pointers on how to run the property… he does give them pointers, and he’s also exceedingly good company, and a few months after he arrives, Tyrion takes her aside and straight-up tells her that he has never seen his brother being so at ease with anyone and this marriage without courting might have been the best decision he could have taken and so he hopes that she feels the same.

“I do,” she replies, knowing that she _does_. “I — I really do.”

“I see,” he replies, and leaves as he smiles to himself.

He _does_ stay until their wedding anniversary, that they do _not_ celebrate throwing a large party — inviting a few people they are actually in confidence with, sure, but none of that. They do not invite Cersei, either. From what Brienne hears, her parties aren’t changing and she still hasn’t chosen which one of her endless suitors she would want to marry — she’s quite all right with that. She can take her time, as far as she’s concerned.

That evening, though, Jaime looks at her _slyly,_ like he cannot wait for them to be alone.

When they are, as she locks the door, he’s downright _grinning_.

“May I know what’s so amusing this fine evening?” She asks, shrugging off her jacket — she wore her usual garb cut for men that she uses for riding, though the _nice_ kind of. He looks at her like he _really_ enjoys what he sees. She thinks she might be getting used to it.

“Well,” he says, “I think my brother knows me a bit too well because he left us a _late wedding present_ that he thinks we might find useful. _And_ , there is one from me, too.”

“Do you,” she replies, sitting on the bed next to him. “And what would they be?”

“For one,” he says, “this is from Tyrion.”

The last thing Brienne expects when she opens the nondescript wooden box she’s handed a moment later is what looks like _an ivory replica of a cock_ in a warm caramel color, with a dark red leather harness coming with it that she can _immediately_ imagine a use for. Specifically —

“That — is for me to —”

“Yes,” he nods, “ _that_ is supposed to be the point, and I would be delighted to actually… try it out, which is why I took the liberty of placing some oil on your nightstand, my lady.”

“All — alright,” she nods, feeling like she’s _burning up_ just thinking about it. “And… yours?”

“Mine, yes,” he nods, before he produces another box from the drawer on his nightstand. “Well, feel free to refuse it if I have read you wrong, but after one year, I think not.”

Brienne nods, kind of worried at what she will find inside it. It’s another nondescript wooden box, nothing like the intricately, elaborately ones all around the house. She opens it, and —

She stares for a long, long time at the dark red leather collar with a golden lock that’s resting inside it.

Not _the same_ as the ones he had made for the foxes, but similar enough — not too tall but sturdy, of _nice_ leather, with a good, sturdy clasp that should definitely keep it still.

She flushes.

She flushes so hard that denying that she _wants_ it would be an outright lie.

“How — how did you guess?”

“I can see where you look,” he smiles, “and you _did_ spend a lot of time looking at the ones on the foxes. So I may have thought about it. And I thought I might really, _really_ like that.”

“… How do you even _know_ so surely?” She asks him, not closing the box, putting it down on her legs.

“Believe me,” he says, “I had a _lot_ of time to figure most of it out. And I am… fairly open to trying things that feel like a good idea.”

“… Does this? Feel like one?”

“Oh, it does,” he grins, moving that golden hair from his neck, and — “Does my lady want to put it on and see where it goes? She’s free to use the _other_ wedding present, too.”

She finds herself smiling.

Very, very wide.

“I think,” she replies, taking the collar in her hands, “that she _really_ does want that.”

“Oh,” he grins, moving his head forward, “then she absolutely _should_.”

Well.

And who is she, now, to deny that request, when she’s wanted it for _months_?

She breathes in and out, in and out, unlocking the golden buckle, trying to keep her damned hands still, slowly reaching out and moving the band through it, pushing the pin inside a hole that makes sure it wouldn’t be too loose, but enough for her to put a couple of fingers underneath, and then slides the band back under the buckle.

Hell.

 _Hell_ , she can feel the blood going all the way _down_ to her crotch as he raises up his head, arching it up, showing the line of his neck clad in that collar, and a spike of possessiveness goes through her at once as she reaches out and cups his neck, feeling the collar under her fingers, slipping a thumb underneath, her tongue wetting her lips before she moves closer.

“My lord husband does really look astonishingly pretty like this,” she says, and the way he breathes in at _that,_ as if _that_ quite got to him…

It gets to _her_ , too — suddenly her riding trousers feel _tight_ , and she needs them off, but —

“Maybe he should help me take my clothes off, how about _that_?”

He nods, batting his eyelids one moment, before —

Before sliding on his knees and putting his _mouth_ on the laces tightening them up and undoing them, and then grasping the hem with his teeth and pulling it _down_ until it has uncovered her smallclothes, and then he _blinks_ up at her as he smiles, and —

 _Hell_.

She pushes down her trousers, groaning before kicking them to the side, and moves a hand under the collar and drags him forward until he has his head in between her legs, and she feels him grinning against her cunt before he starts licking around it, and then _over_ it, and then up and down before his tongue twirls around her clit and sucks on it lightly, and by that point she’s moaning without giving a single care if anyone hears — in this year, most of the staff has heard them, certainly a few others must have and no one ever brought it up, so she cannot honestly care less for it. Everyone can hear, as far as she cares — seems like assuming no one would ever thought she _could_ enjoy this for years has made her feel bold when it comes to people _knowing_ how much the both of them do.

“Yes,” she blurts, “yes, you’re doing so _good_ , oh, _bloody hell you are —_ ”

He moans against her cunt and licks around it faster, _harder_ , his hands grasping at her naked thighs as she pushes his head even _further_ —

It doesn’t take long — he knows what she likes by know, and he knows _exactly_ where to put his mouth — she’s peaking and covering his face in her water, and he opens his mouth and swallows at once, as if he can’t get enough of it, not that he _can_ , he did tell her once, and _oh_ but she can feel his throat moving against her crotch — she needs to not faint before she actually gets to use her _other_ present, but he’s making it very, _very_ difficult, and it’s the last thing she thinks before she closes her eyes and _screams_ his name as she keeps on coming all over his face.

By the time she has gained enough sense to move his head back and catch her breath, she doesn’t know how long it’s been, but he looks _very_ , very satisfied when she looks down at him, and maybe he did earn the right of being smug about it — she’s come so hard, his entire _face_ is covered in it.

“Bed,” she commands, trying to not sound like she _is_ about to faint. “ _Now_.”

He gives her another _very_ smug grin before moving on it, with all the grace he still has while fencing, dropping down on it in his shirt that’s sticking to his chest and trousers that let her see _exactly_ how hard he is.

And he is _very_ hard.

 _Right then_.

She takes off her shirt, feeling like it will suffocate her, and then tells him to not move as she takes out the harness — she slips it on, and she _won’t_ ask how it’s her exact measures, but it fits quite snugly around her hips, and when she slides the ivory cock inside it, it fits in the hole perfectly.

She breathes in, noticing how Jaime is looking at her like he can’t _wait_ for it, not missing how he hasn’t said a word until now when he usually _is_ talkative.

She moves on the bed, kneeling, making sure he sees it, and moves her hands on his trousers, unlacing them and carefully avoiding to touch his cock, seeing him tremble when she does.

“Look at you,” she says, moving them down, “so hard for me, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” he groans back, nothing else, no winking, no lewd tone — his smallclothes are soaking wet when she pulls them away and throws them on the ground, and for a moment she considers telling him to turn on his front, but —

But she really wants to see him in the face, when she —

When she _takes_ him.

“Good,” she whispers, reaching for the oil he so helpfully left her on the nightstand, “how _very_ good of you. And I think,” she says, “I should get you ready now if I am to take you, shouldn’t I?”

He nods, moving back on the bed — she grabs one of the pillows, shoving it under his hips so she has a better view of his ass, and when he raises up his legs so she can see the rim of his entrance she feels like she’s going to faint for _how much she wants to take him right now_.

She pours oil on her fingers, reaching out and only putting the tips around it, but then he gasps and says _more_ when she prods at his entrance, just staying right on it, and then she pushes one in a bit more and he moans _harder._

“Bloody hell, please, _more_ ,” he blurts, and she lets herself smile as she pushes it inside up to the first knuckle. His hips tremble as if he’s trying to not move too much when she pushes that one finger in deeper, and then a second, and by the time she has two slicked fingers moving in and out of him easily enough he’s _writhing_ , his cock hard enough it’s leaking all over the sheets, and he hasn’t even touched himself once, has he —

She moves back, shoving away the pillow, and then she pours the remaining oil on the ivory cock, feeling like she’ll _burst_ if she doesn’t take him now.

“God,” she says, “I’m — I _will_ go ahead. Ready?”

He looks at her as if he was about to reply he has been for hours, but then he just nods and breathes out a _yes_ that’s brimming with urgency, and so she moves forward and puts a hand on the sides of his neck on the pillow while the other keeps his ass open while she moves on his entrance and then _pushes_.

She goes slow, of course, but after a moment where he tells her to stop while she has just the head in, he nods and she starts moving ahead, still going inch by inch, except that he _takes it_ , his legs moving behind her back and clutching at it.

“God,” she says, “you’re taking it _so well_ for me,” and he moans _again_ as she pushes in _farther_ and then she’s buried deep inside him and she can feel how hard his cock is against her frame and when she slowly moves her fingers under the collar and tugs he moans _hard_ , and so what if she moves three of them under it and her thumb in the front and she feels his throat tighten as she thrusts into him experimentally, still keeping it slow, the rush of blood in her veins so hot she thinks she’ll burst, and then she leans down to kiss him when she thrusts inside him a bit faster and he immediately kisses back, moaning into her mouth, and he’s leaking against her chest with each thrust that gives any friction to his cock and she’s just sad she can’t take him into her mouth _for now_ —

“You feel so good,” she says, because he _does_ , and so what if his cheeks flush a bit harder at that as he looks up at her like she's the best thing that’s ever happened to him, and well, he definitely is the best that’s ever happened to _her_ and she should tell him later, “you’re taking me perfectly, aren’t you,” she says as she pushes her thumb at the side of his throat, and he nods once, twice, and she starts thrusting inside him harder and _harder_ , her hips snapping downwards and picking up the pace as his legs clench around her tighter — she’s not going to last long, not when she just wants to lean down and suck marks into his skin where everyone might see them, and actually why _not_ —

She does, taking a piece of the skin on his throat just under the collar between her teeth and _biting_ and then he screams and screams her name as he comes against her stomach, his legs clenching so tight around her she can’t breathe but she doesn’t care, not when she’s sucking at that skin and burying herself inside him with one last thrust before she feels herself coming against the back of the ivory cock pressing against her crotch, and she knows that harness will be drenched later but she cares for none of it as she leans down and kisses him once, twice, thrice, feeling him sigh and moan into her mouth, only saying her name and _bloody hell_ and _yes_ , and she just — stays _there_ inside him, not moving, hand grasping the back of the collar as he keeps on coming against her, until she feels his legs give out as the wave of pleasure that hit her all over again keeps on going through her blood, and just _then_ she slips out before falling down on the side of the bed and pulling him over her, his right hand grasping at her hip as he breathes in and out, his mouth curled up in a smile that can’t be anything but genuine.

“Jaime Lannister,” she breathes, hand going to the back of his head, twirling some locks around her fingers, “are the _best_ thing that’s ever happened to me.”

He laughs at that, curling closer to her, still looking like he’s very, _very_ satisfied with how the evening is going. “Am I,” he whispers, “because I think I could say the same, Brienne. I wouldn’t have said you were _this_ wild when I ran into you, but maybe I could have seen it.”

“Oh, do you want to find out how far I can go now?”

He grins back at her, green eyes glinting in the candlelight.

“All yours and always available for such quests, lady wife.”

She grins in return, moving backwards before pushing him down against the bed,

“Well then,” she says, “allow me to do something I have been wanting to do for a while. Be a dear and keep those hands there, won’t you? I think I want to see how many times we can do this before we’re both completely exhausted.”

He nods, and then moans out loud again when she leans down and takes his spent cock between her lips, her tongue running around the head — oh, it might take a bit for him to get going again, but they have all night long and she _does_ want to suck him off until he comes into her mouth, and then she thinks she might take him all over again and see how long it takes before he’s ready to go another time, and as she leans down and takes a bit _more_ of his cock in her mouth and then more, she _knows_ that she wouldn’t change a single thing about how they both ended up here.

Not one thing _at all_.

End.


End file.
